


It's Cultural Bolshevism

by johnbreadcrumbs



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Transphobia, actual coomer behavior, no beta we die like men, the nationalists too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27708301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnbreadcrumbs/pseuds/johnbreadcrumbs
Summary: in which nazi blames the soviets for being fucking gay
Relationships: Authright/Authleft, Communism/White Identitarian | Nazi (Centricide), authunity, nazi/commie
Comments: 69
Kudos: 88





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warning//content warning  
> use of f slur, and used against lgbt folk and homophobia (from guess who), alcohol addiction + eating disorder. also, there are mentions of vomit.  
> this is groundbreaking lonely bi copium (cobium?).  
> i used the canon names I saw on reddit, james is authright, joseph is authleft, jay is libleft and jack is ancap.  
> started this in august, abandoned it because of mental illness <3 and school, and finally finished it after reading the lovely @toodumbtodie ‘s "doki doki larp club and “the worst campus housing in town” by @spacetrash_uwu, which is so impressive and literally book length. read those. they are exceptional pieces and truly got me out of my massive writer’s block!  
> thank you for reading :^)

**trigger warning// content warning!! use of f slur, and used against lgbt folk and homophobia (from guess who), alcohol addiction + eating disorder. also, there are mentions of vomit.**

College has been okay for the past month and a half-or-so. I’m not as isolated as I was in high school, now I have the nationalists’ union, Jack and my roommate. That’s a start. Still, pretty pathetic, numale behavior since the only women I’ve met here are blue-haired SJWs, not pure, Aryan virgins. 

I pause and stop at the door to my dorm, . 

Of course, I forgot my only key. And of course, Joseph was asleep when I left for a walk and to cool down. The dorms were way too fucking hot to cost this much. Now I was stuck in the hall, with no way to get back in.

I carefully pressed my ear against the door of the locked dorm.

_ What was that commie bastard doing at 3 in the morning that he needed to lock me out?  _

At least I had a valid reason. Fucking third insomnia walk of the week, I hate how soy this is. How the hell am I so stressed doing an art degree?

A loud grunt came from behind the door, followed by a series of keening moans. 

_ Fuck fuck Jesus fuck. _

I backed up quickly, nearly hitting the wall opposite, stumbled down the stairs, and tore out of the building, back into the cold, the fresh night air hitting my flushed face. 

_ The slav is a chad. Great.  _

Contempt bubbled within me.  _ Why couldn’t I have that?  _ I’m an ideal specimen of the Aryan Race, an Übermensch. Women should be attracted to pure Aryans, not a Jewish cultural bolshevik like him. I shake my head in some feeble attempt to dismiss those thoughts and plug in some music. My favorite band, The People Haters, reverberates in my eardrums

Another lap around the building, it is. Maybe then the femoid will be gone, and I can pretend like nothing happened. Sighing, I start on the concrete path for the second time that night.

_ “I hate people _

_ They mean nothing to me _

_ I hate people _

_ I hate society” _

\----

I rounded the last set of stairs in the building as the door to my floor creaked open, and a sobbing, figure clad in striped thigh highs, fishnets, a short skirt, and a hoodie burst through. I glanced up at her face. 

_ Oh.  _

I averted my eyes, feeling him clamber down the stairs behind me and disappear out the door. 

Once he was gone, I finally processed what had just happened before entering the hallway.

_ Joseph was fucking dudes. He’s a homo. A fucking pansy. That was a queer. In a skirt. Not a femoid.  _

Thoughts raced through my head and I gulped before turning to stop at our dorm. 

_ How can I live with a degenerate?  _

The oak door was in front of me, unlocked now. I gathered myself and quickly pushed through the door, beelining to my bed. In my peripheral, I could see Joseph was crying shirtless.

_ What a douche _ .  _ That’s what you get for being degen,  _ a voice in my head whispered. 

I shuffled past him, almost crawling into my bed, and cringed in realization. My boots and jacket were still on, and the closet was next to his bed. 

_ Shit.  _ Head down, I stepped next to his slumped heaving form, slowly removed my coat, and kicked off my boots. I wanted to berate him, call him a fag, any number of things I had done previously whenever he showed any kind of weakness. But instead, I sat next to him and grabbed his bare, chiseled shoulder in what I hoped was a show of brotherly compatriotism. 

“Message me so I don’t have to hear you fuck a queer next time. And sorry.”

He leaned into me, slowly and clearly unintentionally, but my breath hitches suddenly. Anyone with a nose could have smelled the alcohol on him. I tensed up and shot straight out of his bed into mine. 

_ I won’t engage in faggotry. _ I repeat to myself.  _ It’s wrong, effeminate and unnatural. It’s wrong, effeminate and unnatural. _

Facing the Reich propaganda posters on the wall, I laid down (never mind I was still wearing my uniform) and forced myself to sleep, Joseph’s sobs fading into nothingness. 

\---

A few weeks passed without Joseph and I talking. I try to convince myself I don’t miss talking with him, but watching SJW compilations with the capitalist junkie has gotten mind-numbing. Jack does lines in front of me for god’s sake. I can only tolerate that degeneracy until the “don’t tread on me but I’m also spineless,” schtick gets old. Just goes to show how much of the homosexual modern lifestyle is about perversion.

It’s fucking awkward whenever Joseph and I in our dorm at the same time, even if it’s for a few minutes but at least we chat on Discord occasionally. I finally got a job at the campus library, which proves I’m not a lazy degenerate art major like everyone else in my art classes. I still feel awful though, the cafeteria food is horrible, so clearly I don’t eat it. There’s nothing close, so I just eat whatever dried noodles there are in our kitchenette.  _ I know it’s weak, but why should I care?  _ No one seems to care about me anyway. Especially not my parents.

I snap out of my ruminations, hearing my phone chime. Loudly. In the silent library. 

The time on the clock says 9:55. This is what I’m doing on a Friday night. Five more minutes, and I’m off. Who knew a college library needed to be open so late? Before unlocking my phone, I glance around. It’s empty, save for one bastard in the corner, wearing a goddamn box on his head and furiously typing at a computer.

College is weird. 

It’s a Discord notification, from Joseph. My fingers shake slightly as I tap on the popup. 

**☭** **Joseph☭ : Хей comrade. Would you like to play COD together tonight?**

How formal. It’s charming, almost. Or faggy. He types against for a second, the bubbles appearing then just as fast they’re gone. I hesitate, my thumbs hovering over the screen, then reply.

**Me: Sure, just got off. You better have something other than slav vodka.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when i look at the whole work you can tell that i wrote this in august cuz imo it sounds vastly different from the rest but idk  
> i have only written one other fic it was a year ago and 500 words BUT this time i have 4.5 chapters done and i think it is going to be 11 total, so that is fun and new!!  
> nazi is a cunt, ancom uses they/them pronouns in this. enbies rise up.  
> if any of you know what libertarian’s ‘name’ is for future reference, please tell, it would be appreciated.  
> questions? concerns? errors I might have missed or general writing critique? anything? comment. it gives me that sweet serotonin and also i need validation.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which nazi blames the soviets for being fucking gay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning-mentions of eating issues  
> as a coomer, i decided it was a good idea to add more than one chapter for my first upload but i didnt know how to do it at the same time, but then i figured it out too late. cool!   
> how do you name chapters. actually how do you name fics.

I look up and it’s finally empty. Standing up, I crack my back and close up shop for the day. On the way out, I log my hours and grab my bag. 

I crack the door open slowly, as to not surprise him, but he still starts anyway. From his bed, He peers over a worn copy of the little red book as I step into and close the door behind me. 

“You Bolsheviks and your theory,” I remarked snidely, dropping my bag next to the door and sinking into the musty beanbag he dragged next to his bed. For once the dorm doesn’t stink of vodka.

Joseph chuckles, “Vell, at least my theory is redpilled in the right way,”

“Fuck you,” I retort, but I’m grinning. 

He shuffles above me on the bed before standing up next to me and stretching. I look up at him, and he’s looking at me, but then he isn’t. This is so incredibly wrong. At least I can blame it on Joseph infecting my mind with cultural Marxism. He steps away, towards the console to boot it up. My head shoots down and I’m praying he doesn’t see the blush creeping across my pale Aryan skin. Not that God exists.

“I’m going to get changed,” I announced, grabbing my pajamas from the wardrobe and then slipping into the bathroom. 

The lock clicks behind me and I let out a deep sigh. My sallow face is staring at me in the cracked bathroom mirror and I look skinnier and paler than usual. I slip off my white button-up and navy slacks, peeling off my undershirt and boxers before putting on a pair of sweats and a pit-stained tee. My stomach growls and I can’t recall the last time I ate. Maybe this morning? I tell myself I’m not hungry. I brush it off, turn the sink on, and plunge my face under the cool water. Like they do in movies. 

He’s still turned towards the Xbox, fiddling with something when I come back out. My eyes linger on his... lower half. But I’m just admiring his form, so it’s not perversion. 

“Hey, James. Come help me, vill you?” 

I clamber over to him obediently. 

“What’s the problem?” I asked breathily , correcting midway through to a monotone. 

“Tell me vhy the light is red.” he beckons to the small light on the side of the console. 

We’re once again way too close; his breath smells slightly of beer. I realize something. The bastard might be an alcoholic. Just like his people were. That reminds me of my father, and I can’t help but compare the two. At least with my father, I didn’t tolerate his weakness. But look where that got me. Our shoulders brush against each other as I lean in to look, flinching at the touch. I know I’m touched starved, but who gives a shit. I’m not going to touch a man to fix it. 

“Turn another light on.” 

He complies and switches on the shitty little lamp that sits on the table. 

“Dumbass. The cable isn’t plugged in.” 

I reach behind the Xbox, firmly plug the cable in and toss his controller. He catches it, just blinking at me. Not even saying anything. We took our respective places, him above me, perched on the edge of his bed, and myself flopped on the bean bag. We play a few rounds of COD, laughing and him dominating and I nearly rage-quitting. After a while, we’re quiet, waiting for the shitty wifi to load a new round. My stomach growls, and I don’t say anything, hoping he’ll ignore it. But he doesn’t. Surprising because communism 100 million dead starvation famine Stalin iPhone. 

“James, eat something. Check the fridge, vill you?” 

My heart skips a beat.

I reluctantly get up and crack open our communal minifridge. Nothing, save a jar of horseradish. His eyes are on me, burning through my back. 

“There’s nothing, it's fine. Stop worrying about me.”

“Comrade let’s go to the vending machine then.” 

I hear him slip his coat and boots on, his metal jangling in the pockets. 

“Fine.” I’ll let him have this.

I pull on a green hoodie hanging on the back of the door and grab my keys. The hoodie smells awful, and it’s too small for me. 

“The vending machine is fucking broke. How does a fucking vending machine break?” Pounding at the glass isn’t working, so I resign myself to pressing random buttons on the machine. 

“Capitalist pigs trying to profit off of exploitation!” Joseph declares, “Drive through?” he offers instead. 

“If you drive.”

“Da comrade, but my car is in the shop.”

“I can’t believe I’m letting you drive my Volkswagen.” I toss him my keys and we walk into the parking lot. There are people leaving to party, girls in short dresses and guys gathered around popped car trunks. And we’re wearing pajamas. I pull the hood on and duck behind Joseph. 

I whisper to him sharply, “Hurry up, fag,” 

He ignores me but speeds up, and then we’re at the car. Of course, there’s a group of people right next to us, girls giggling and guys passing around… something. I slide past them, getting a “watch it asshole” and it’s fucking embarrassing how quickly I roll over and apologize. I’m supposed to be the living, breathing embodiment of fascism and I’m apologizing for stupid shit, letting a man use my car, shuffling aorund in my pajamas, and worst of all, I don’t fucking hate it. As soon as I can, I jump into the passenger side and Joseph turns the ignition. 

“You have a nice car, James. If there’s one thing the Germans do right, its automotive engineering.” 

I laugh, and it's sharp and crackling. A smile plays across his lips and I smile back. Gross. He puts the vehicle into reverse, his hand resting behind my headrest. The group standing around the car scatters, and just like that, we’re on the road. 

\-- 

“Vhere do you vant to go?” he interrupts my trance. It occurs to me I have no idea where we are. Something soft and acoustic is playing in the background. He could literally dump my body on the side of the road and no one would know. That doesn’t sound too awful in the abstract though- who would miss me?

“Mcdonalds, is that degenerate?”

“Only if you count the wage theft as degeneracy. And their apple pies.”

“The apple pies are pretty bad,” I say.

“Not the wage theft? You’re funny for a nazi.”

“Incorrect. I’m a white identitarian.”

“Фриц, a difference without a distinction.”

I let him have it, I’m not in a fighting mood. 

We pull into the drive-through. 

“ _ Looked at you too long at last _

_ Fell apart in the lows of a laugh”  _

He paused the song and we looked at the illuminated menu. I’m hungry but I’m not. 

“Vhat are you getting? Tell me and I vill tell the… vhat do you call these,” he points at the speaker next to the menu. 

“Speaker, you boomer. Fries and 10 piece nuggets, and a sprite.”

“Da.” 

The cashier took our order, and we pulled up to the window. I watch Joseph pay and grab the brown bag. He tips way too much and the employee says something to him. I feel like I’m watching a silent movie. I’m handed the fries and his food, and we pull back onto an empty, dark stretch of road. I try to eat a fry, but every bone in my body is telling me not to. It's greasy and mealy and disgusting. I’m nauseous, the reek of oil and grease filling up the air, suffocating me tightly. Everything is throbbing. My eyes flutter and my head really fucking hurts. God, I’m dizzy.

“James. Hey. James.  _ James. _ ” 

I’m being shaken like a maraca. I open my eyes slowly and Joseph is right in front of me, looking into my eyes with a concerned expression. His hands are on my shoulders. They’re big. He has a good grip. I reach a quivering hand up to his face before I realize what I’m doing. Shit. I freeze and he freezes too. He drops back into the driver's seat and the moment is over. 

“Joseph, what the fuck? What happened?” I demand weakly. 

“You passed out. Now, I am going to get out of the car and you’re going to, uh, yak, as they say. Окей?” 

I nod. He’s right, I feel sick and I feel like crying. But I also don’t really feel anything at all. I’m watching from above as he carefully drags me out of the parked car, and holds me as I ‘yak’ onto the wet grass. He wipes my face with a napkin and puts the straw of my sprite cup in my mouth. 

“Drink.” 

I feebly suck at the straw, then cough after swallowing too much. There are hot tears running down my cheeks. I feel so soy right now. Can’t even eat a fucking fry or drink sprite on my own. 

Joseph puts the cup back, then reaches over me to recline my seat back. His large body is right over me. I’m sobbing, but I stretch my arms out to him wordlessly. He embraces me, awkwardly albeit, but the touch is so nice. I’m safe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is it in bad taste to make homonationalism’s name ernst? milo? nick (the catboy, uh, enthusiast neo-nazi)? i just don’t know what to call him.   
> please fucking validate me!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ancap intervention time >:)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning// content warning!! use of f slur, other slurs used against LGBT folk and homophobia (from guess who) and alcohol addiction + eating disorder. also, there are mentions of vomit.   
> i actually enjoy releasing these more than writing cuz rn im at a point that is kind of boring to write so have this!!

The sun is streaming in. I can feel the heat on my closed eyes. There's somebody holding me.

“Anarkitty.  _ Mmph. _ ” and a hand palms my face and runs down my chest. 

It’s a man’s hand. It's Joseph.  _ It’s Joseph.  _ I furiously untangle myself from him, ready to unleash a string of epithets but I stop myself. His eyes shoot open and we’re face-to-face. In my car. 

“Who the hell is Anarkitty, you fag? What the fuck?” 

I’m about to accuse him of kidnapping me, assaulting me, whatever I can to get out of this. But then it all comes flooding back to me. And I’m the one who asked for it. He looks shell-shocked, his eyes wide and his face red. He opens and closes his mouth before finally speaking.

“Fuck. Shit. The hoodie was, um, I believed you called them a queer, my ex’s. It smells like them still.” he’s stuttering. Pathetic.

“Just drive us to the dorm.”

\---

We don’t exchange any words on the way back, and it's 10 am by the time we’re at the dorm. Joseph changes quickly and runs out the door, muttering something about work and classes. My schedule tells me about a noon art history lecture, and I decide to take a long shower beforehand. The water is at least hot, but the pressure feels like a stream of piss. I scrub my skin until it's red and irritated. I’ll do anything to avoid thinking about last night. There’s a stale granola bar on top of the microwave and I force myself to eat that. It’s dry and my mouth feels cottony, so I reach for a glass on the kitchenette counter and nearly down it before sniffing the contents and retching.  _ Who drinks vodka in a water glass?  _ Joseph does.

I open my phone to message Jack. 

**Me: Jack, do you want to get coffee after my noon lecture? I need advice.**

**jack (tm): will you pay me**

**Me: Fuck you. I’ll pay for your coffee, and that’s it.**

**jack (tm): it's a deal see you at 2**

I shut my phone off and start my walk to class. The lecture is surprisingly interesting, and I’m happy to scrawl notes about early 20th century artists for two hours. By the time we’re done, I’ve written 3 pages and my hand is cramped and grey from lead. I pack my bag up and rush through the campus to the eatery. The leaves have started yellowing, the wind is harsher and I’m starting to wish that I hadn’t worn thin slacks. I make a note to wear wool next time. I arrive at the cafe, step in and immediately spot Jack, who is wearing a particularly colorful and obnoxious fedora.

“Oh, it’s my favorite nazi!” he exclaimed. The heads of several people around us turned.

“Shut the  _ fuck  _ up,” I hissed at him.

“Oh sorry,” Jack drawled, “my favorite  _ race realist _ !”

Before I have time to retort, he motions over a waitress and begins ordering. I scramble to look at the menu, but I’m not fast enough. 

“I’ll have a pumpkin latte, extra shot of vanilla syrup and made with almond milk and he’ll have-”

“A large black coffee.” I cut him off.

“-a large black coffee,” he repeats. Asshole. The waitress nods and wanders off into the crowded cafe. He blabbers for five minutes about stocks, the glory of the free market, and bitcoin before the waitress returns with our drinks. I thanked her and paid.

The anarchist leans his head forward and rests it on a propped-up hand, swirling his latte with a spoon.

“So. Spill the tea!”

“Is you keeping your mouth shut covered by the NAP?” 

“Of course! My silence can be bought and sold, like anything else can be!” he grins at me, sharp canine teeth gleaming. He really does have the mannerisms of a snake.

I took a deep breath and launched into my story.

“Wait, you  _ heard  _ it and you  _ told  _ him you heard it?” 

“He’s good at COD too. Beat me four straight rounds.”

“Enough of your war larping bullshit. Get to the meat of the story.”

“He drove me to Mcdonald’s and I passed out, then vomited on the side of the road”

“And then?”

“Wefellasleeptogetherinmycarandthenwehadafight,” 

By the time I finished, my coffee was lukewarm and Jack had finished his. 

“Wow, you’re really playing the long game with him,” The capitalist arches his eyebrows at me, wiggling them suggestively. Immediately, I regretted telling anything to him. 

I grabbed him by his stupid fucking tie and yanked him towards me, “I’m not playing any games. I’m  _ trying  _ to keep a valuable comrade. Get your head out of the gutter, perv.”

He slithered out of my grip, and back into his seat. This time, he positioned himself slightly out of my reach. Bastard.

“It’s ephebophilia, and that was a  _ blatant _ violation of our non-aggression pact, so-” 

“So, give me advice, you fucking fool,” I snapped at him. 

Jack exhaled. “You’re gonna hate me for this and you'll cuss me out, but you clearly have a big fat gay crush on Joseph. You can deny it all you want, but I went through the same thing with John before we started dating,” he added helpfully. 

I hated how right he was. I should have never even talked to a degenerate like him. 

“I’m  _ surrounded  _ by fags like you,” I snarled, “and they’re  _ poisoning  _ my mind with _ sexual perversion _ ,”

At this point, several people are looking at us, but I don’t care. With as much venom as I can conjure up, I spit one last “ _ Fuck  _ you,” at him before storming out. 

\----

Tears are filling up my eyes, and I’m speedwalking back to the dorm, my vision blurring. I’m degenerating, and it's because of college. And liberals. And Jack. And Joseph. My earphones blasting Skrewdriver, I keep my head down, pretending to type on my phone. Far off, I hear someone shout. I ignore it. Seconds later, I’m colliding with a speeding skateboarder, and then I hit into the hard concrete back first. I sit up and brush my now ruined slacks off, dazed. There’s a dull throb somewhere in my backside and I can feel bruises welling up on my pale Aryan skin already.

The culprit grabs his skateboard from a nearby bush and turns to face me sheepishly, “Hey, uh, sorry man.” he says, offering me a hand.    
I swat it away, “I don’t need help,  _ fag _ .” I growl through gritted teeth

He blinks at me from under a black bandana and his face unreadable. His fists ball up, and his knuckles whiten. I swear I recognize him, but I can’t place him. I pick myself up quickly, and I dwarf him. Finally, a man that I’m taller than.

Timidly, he squawks, “My bad, but I’m late, gotta go,”

“Hey, wait! You ruined my slacks, asshole!” I yell after him, but it’s hopeless, his green figure disappears in seconds. Then it dawns on me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my mind has been on that clip of jordan peterson where the interviewer asks him if he's still on an all beef diet and he goes "unfortunately yes"  
> so in conclusion conservative is now named jordan.  
> thank y'all sm for your comments, i do not think you understand i literally read them five times they are like coke to me :^0  
> also this chapter is kind of short o well


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> homoseggsual activities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> obamaputtingmedalonobama.jpeg is me rereading my own writing   
> cw/tw: slurs and homophobia, but i assume if you're this far you've figured it out

I’m back at the dorm building, but I don’t even know if I want to sleep in the same room as Joseph. I don't know if I  _ can _ . His homosexual seduction isn’t real affection, it’s illegitimate and definitely won’t secure a future for white children. I consider crashing at Jack’s apartment, I’ve done that before, but I managed to fuck up not one, but two of my only friendships today. Including his. Sleeping in the car it is. Luckily Joseph's car isn’t in the parking lot yet. It will be soon, he’s always back at 5 on the dot. I kick myself for remember his stupid little routines. I have thirty minutes. Once I’m inside, all semblance of a planned escape from our dorm goes out the window. I’m hungry, tired, and covered in cold, dirty water. Second shower of the day, here I come.

\---

Once I rinse off, I let the steam fill the cramped washroom, indulging in the warm, humid atmosphere. The fan doesn’t even work anyway, so what’s the point of not enjoying it? Something about the sauna-like room makes me incredibly fucking tired. I slip on some boxers and a threadbare wife-beater before crawling into bed. It’s the easiest I’ve fallen asleep in months. 

\----

When I next come to, Something screeches and clicks into place. Footsteps thump, but they don’t really register with me. I mumble and bury myself further into the pillow, face down. The sheets smell different. Maybe I need to change mine, I probably haven’t in weeks. The mattress squeaks as a weight comes down on the edge of the bed. I flip to face the ceiling and crack open my eyes. Joseph is sitting on the edge of my bed, purposefully avoiding eye contact. I look around, and the wall nearest has a DPRK flag on it.  _ His  _ bed. Groggily I let out a curse and sit up. But I don’t move.

He side-eyes me. I stare back at him, unflinchingly.

“Comrade, you do vhatever you vant, get up or don’t. I'll let you be either way” He says carefully as if he’s treading on nails. I don’t blame him. We sit in silence and stillness for a few long minutes. Nothing moves. He starts to shift away but I grab his wrist before he can get up. 

“No. Sit with me before I change my mind.”

“Da, okay” He speaks, tersely. I push aside every ideological conviction I have, letting my mind go blank before I quickly undo myself from his sheets and awkwardly hug him. I’m pressed against him, and he’s freezing and tense. 

“You’re actually awful at this you know,” I whisper to him. 

He snorts. “Me? Awful at intimacy? James, you are one to talk,”

But he relaxes into my arms and I just breathe him in. He smells like gasoline and bergamot, and it’s not awful. I actually like it. He pulls me in tighter, combing rough man hands through my still-damp hair. I can’t help it, I melt to his strong form, nestling my face into his shoulder. 

_ I want to kiss him. _

If I weren’t so deprived and horny right now, I’d berate myself for these… thoughts. But homosexuals are clever that way, they’ll seduce you to the point of no return to the good, straight man you really are. 

My head in the crook of his neck still, I move my right hand to his stubbled face. Joseph inhales sharply. I pull away from his shoulder and we’re looking at each other in the eyes, but this time it’s better. 

“Can I kiss you?”

Before I can take it back, I nod, expecting him to go straight for my mouth, but inside Joseph is working his way up my neck, planting kisses along my throat. All I can do is sit stiffly, slack-jawed, hoping he doesn’t think I don’t want this. Because I do. I’ve never even kissed a woman, and I’m letting a man do this? 

Seemingly sensing my hesitation, he stops and looks at me, concern in his reddish eyes (in the iris, not the sclera). He untangles himself from me. 

“James, it is okay if you don’t vant to. In fact, it is completely fine, and ve can stop now. Maybe I’ve overstepped your boundaries,” He offers. 

I blink at him. I let my dick speak on this one. 

“I’m fucking horny, and I want to feel you,” I demand, mounting myself on top of him. I am praying that this is okay with him. He shimmies his hands down my back, my hairs standing up as he brushes over them. My spine curls as he suddenly grabs my ass, and I suppress a moan through my gritted teeth. We’re both breathing heavily, and the air feels charged all around us. 

I try to forget how  _ wrong  _ everything I’m doing is. How completely fucked everything about this situation makes it even hotter.  _ How incredibly fucked is it that I enjoy all of it?  _ My (face) cheeks burn in shame, but I still lean into his mouth with a whimper. He has booze breath, and I’m laughing into Joseph’s lips at the pure hypocrisy of it all. A fascist making out with a Slav. It’s kind of a physical and modern reenactment of the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact. 

He gazes into my blue eyes with blood-red intensity while we’re stopping to breathe.

“You’re hard.”

“So are you.”

“Two vay street, are ve going to do something about it?”

__ I had only my shame to swallow. And years of repression and homophobia too. 

“Noone has to know? Like you won’t tell anybody?” I ask with uncertainty. My voice is trembling and pitchy. I’m actually caving into the homosexual lifestyle in real-time. 

“No, but it is okay if you don’t want to. Ve can always stop, or vhatever you vant.”

_ I can’t do this.  _

“Another night?”

“Da, okej. Tell me vhen you are ready?” He easily lifts me off of his lap and plops me next to him. 

“Yeah, uh-huh,” I manage to stutter out as he stands up, presumably to go to the bathroom. 

He flashes a lopsided smile and an okay sign at me before disappearing behind the door. 

It’s only six according to my phone, but I have a reminder set to pick up something from the art building, which means I get to avoid Joseph for a while and also mentally destroy myself during my alone time. I pull a red hoodie (Joseph’s, I think, it's huge) and leave the dorm in my Volkswagen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can we talk about how awful the jreg reddit has become? like i want to see fanart and related memes not pcm bs (because the political compass sucks dick and balls)… anyways i forgot to write this in the last chapters notes but i went on a nazi punk music deep dive for this fic and as a dk fan, i can conclusively say nazi punks fuckk off !  
> tell me if there's typos or anything u see n once again appreciate the comments +kudos sm :,)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just realized i never specified that john is libertarian (ty anarchopeachy !!)   
> euromarts are an am*r*c*n thing and literally just grocery stores with foods from europe, usually expired (cool).

I shove the easel, canvas, and oil paints into the back of my tiny golf. The supplies hardly fit. I had hardly ever painted people, it was always classical architecture and scenery, but this is only my second big project, and of course, it’s a modeled portrait. The instructor had only given one in-class session with a live model, and it overlapped with my last art history lecture before our quarter-end test. The other option was to have a friend model, and all I could think of was Joseph. I still hadn’t apologized to Jack for blowing up in his face, even though he is a greedy homo who deserved it. Once the trunk was packed with groceries, I set the GPS for the local EuroMart and drive off. 

\----

“Bag?” The cashier asks me while swiping foodstuffs. 

“Uh, yeah, please.” I snap out of my thoughts and smile curtly. 

“Got it, your total is 70 dollars. Cash or card?” 

“Card,” I say, swiping away 7 hours of work in seconds. Fucking minimum wage. 

He loads up my bag, beckoning at the loaf of vollkornbrot. 

“Ah, you are German! Ossi or Wessi?” 

“Wessi,” I scoffed, straightening my back and snatching my bag from him, insulted at the notion that he would suggest that. I look like a  _ true  _ Aryan man, not a fucking GDR pleb. 

I leave without my receipt. 

\--

Just as I’m about to pull out of my parking spot, my phone dings with a text from Joseph. I have his phone number now, so he messages me more frequently. Stupid shit like asking me when I’ll be back, or bothering me with Stalingrad facts.

**Joseph: Can you get Chinese takeout? Пожалуйста?**

**Me: Fine, but tell me your order or I’ll get you the worst fucking thing I can think of.**

**Joseph. Ha. Beef with vegetables and a side of soup.**

I find a restaurant only two miles away and call in the order for pickup. I make sure to ask for extra fortune cookies.

\--

The restaurant is small and crowded and has a family feel to it. I’m also definitely the only white in here, but whatever. I’m doing it for Joseph. On the wall, there's an amalgamation of posters, one of which contains Chairman Mao.  _ Joseph would like that. _ I sneakily snap a picture and send it to him,  _ based?  _ I ask.  _ You are learning!  _ He replies, then follows it up with,  _ based on what? _

I feel on top of the world, I finally have a connection with someone who doesn't have a more than 50% chance of being the next Dylan Ruth. 

“Order 88, Beef with vegetables, spicy pork soup, and stir fry tofu!” rings out from the bustling kitchen counter, accented by a small and wrinkly Chinese women’s intonation. 

I leave a hearty tip in the plastic cup and duck out of the stuffy hole-in-the-wall. 

\-- 

**Me: Come help me bring shit in or I’ll Gestapo you. On the north end.**

**Joseph: Not if I gulag you first. Coming.**

Minutes later, he jogs out of the building, looking disheveled but cozy in a matching set of buffalo plaid pajamas.

“You’re such a homo, matching PJs?” I tease him, leaning against the cold metal of my driver’s side door. 

Joseph shoves me lightly, clicking his tongue.

“Takes one to know one, comrade. Vhat am I bringing in?”

I choose to ignore his first comment, instead directing him to the back of my Golf. 

“Can you get the easel and the canvas? I’ll get the rest.”

“Da, but I’m vondering vhy you’re not taking the harder stuff if you’re the superior Aryan?”

“Fuck you, it’s called  _ prioritizing  _ where I use my strength.” I flip him off as I pile the notably less heavy paints and bags of food into my arms.

He chuckles, and we wander inside chatting.

\--

“I got you Slav candy,” I wave the bag in his direction, and he grabs at it, successfully snagging the bag. 

“Mm, Большое спасибо!” 

He tears the bag open, sitting on the cold linoleum, and watches me unpack the groceries into our tiny cabinets. 

“James, I owe you, don’t I?” 

I don’t respond, pointedly.  _ Do I have to admit to being a poor?  _

Joseph rises off of the ground and pulls the styrofoam boxes out of the bag, setting them on our makeshift desk. The air fills with the smell of sweet and sour sauce. My mouth waters. 

I shove the last thing, a bag of chips, into the cabinet and turn to sit in the folding chair behind me. Our room is so crowded I don’t even need to take a step. 

We eat without speaking at first, but it doesn’t feel awkward and forced, but the kind of quiet that happens on a walk down a wooded path. Joseph speaks first. 

“Vhat are the art supplies for?” 

I swallow, “Oil painting. A portrait,” I resume shoveling stir fry into my mouth. 

“Ah, of who? Me?” 

“Stop interrogating me, you’re not a KGB agent.” I snap at him sharply, immediately regretting it as soon as his face falls. Fuck. Damage control. 

“Sorry, sorry. We’re supposed to choose someone to paint, a-and I was… going to ask you?” I suggested hopefully. 

“I vould love to, comrade,”

A grin spreads across his face, and I smile back at him, feeling the heat on the tips of my ears. Joseph reaches across the table, clasping my right hand. My fork loudly clatters on the floor. He looks me in the eyes, filled with an expression of pride. My heart swells in my chest, bursting at my ribcage and my limbs turn to jelly. Softly, he begins. 

“James, I am so proud of you. Of everything. Of your art. Your dumbass messages. You’re eating more frequently. Just  _ being  _ around you,” 

Tears well at the edges of my vision, and I choke out a “fucking sap,” before I heave a gasping and snotty sob. He’s so fucking nice. I don’t deserve this. Joseph scrapes his chair over to position himself next to me, and as I tremble with tears of joy and sadness and overwhelming  _ emotion _ , his bearish arms cradle me like a newborn. 

\---

After a while of this, I start to feel like a pathetic homo soyboy cuck. And I probably am, so why not suspend the national socialist agenda to align with a commie? I am not sure. I don’t even know where in my net of contradictions wanting to fuck a soviet commie lies. So I just push it all aside, because that’s all I know how to do. 

Joseph’s scarlet eyes are clouded over, his face dreamy and placid, gazing into some great unknown that apparently lies just beyond a dirty whiteboard. I shake him back into reality, and he yawns disgruntledly, bleary glaring at me through hooded lids.

“I had just-” 

“-in a shitty little folding chair.” I finished his complaint. I trace his lightly stubbled jaw, grazing my fingers over his cracked lips and ridged nose.

“You need chapstick,” I comment, ungluing myself from him and waltzing to my nightstand, shuffling through papers, empty pill bottles, and various lonely socks before reaching a beat-up container of vaseline. 

“Here,” I toss it to him, and his arm shoots up to meet it midair. 

“Thank you, comrade,” He’s so sincere. Or he’s infecting me with the homosexual agenda, and it’s working. I opt to not rejoin him at our dorky little dinner table, choosing to instead recline onto his quilted duvet, in the hopes that he might join me. 

My hope becomes reality, after swiping some vaseline across his dry lips, he returns the jar to my table and crawls onto his creaking mattress. 

“Hi,” I say breathlessly, letting him take control. 

“Hey,” his grin is dopey and soft in the soft light of the lamp. He reaches across my lap for the controller situated on his own nightstand, switching out of the dashboard and flipping onto live TV. 

“ _ The Luftwaffe, Germany’s…”  _

“Vorld Var 2 documentary? You vant this?” 

“Obviously,”

The room fills with the crackling audio of a VHS-turned-CD-turned-USB-turned late-night history channel rerun. The black and white images flicker in front of us, pictures of skinny soldiers and bombed-out towns and the empty lands of war-scorched earth. He settles beside me, spooning me, and within minutes, he’s snoring beside me. His face is illuminated softly in the unnatural light. I carefully extend my hand to the controller, as to not disturb his sleeping form, lowering the volume to a distant murmur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no idea what 4 year college is like lmfao  
> im am*r*c*n and cant pay 250k for it but at least i get white castle and militarized police in schools. checkmate libsharts!   
> ty again for commenting and all that shit. removes me temporarily from the horrifying nature of reality :))))))))))


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> virgin nationalist vs chad internationalist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i chose jomo for pan-africanism because of jomo kenyatta, a former prime minister of kenya and an anticolonialist, but also created a one party state and fostered corruption  
> anyways enjoy !!

In the morning, I wake up with crust in my eyes and Joseph in my bony arms. A beat thumping in my head, steadily increasing in frequency the longer I remained ensnared in the wrinkled sheets and lumpy pillows of his too-small twin XL. 

Luckily, I can see his alarm clock from my position. It’s 9 am, and I remember I had something today at ten. A lecture? A shift? A class? 

I bolt upright, and he stirs woozily beside me. _It’s nationalism club._

Yawning, Joseph hoists himself to a seated position behind me, bringing his arms around me. 

“Hey,” I giggle, twisting my head to meet him halfway in a really weirdly angled kiss. We both have morning breath, so we break after a minute, noses wrinkling. 

A self-satisfied smirk covers his face, “Is this cultural Marxism in effect?” 

I know at heart he’s making a lighthearted jab, but all I want to do is pretend like I’m not this. Like its because of some fucking massive leftist conspiracy that I’m turning into a quivering homo with a crush on an Untermensch. Not that I’m gay. Because I’m _not_. So I changed the subject as quickly as I annexed the Sudetenland. 

“I have, uh, nationalism club, in an hour, do you want to… come along? Maybe? You don’t have to,” I offer, rushing out the last part. 

“Comrade, of course. You must promise to come to my book club, da?”

“Sure,”

\--

We decide to take his car for once, A cherry red Lada. or, as he insists, a Zhiguli, the _real_ name. Joseph firmly placed his hand on my thigh, driving one-handed even up the steep, winding roads of our semi-secluded campus grounds. 

When we park, it’s 9:58, and we walk through the doors of the student center 3 minutes later. I pull him towards the club’s room, stopping us before we enter. 

“Don’t bring up your ‘internationalist prole’ shit, or the, uh, commie shit.”

He nods. I reach to adjust the collar of his tan trench coat. The corner of his lip quirks up as I move to peck his ruddy high-boned cheek.

We move apart, him propping the door open for me, and me shuffling inside quickly. The other members are milling, around, chatting amongst themselves, so I clear my throat abruptly to catch their attention. 

“Ahem. today my comrade will be joining us. He is an authoritarian like you all,” I beckon my hand at the rightists, carefully neglecting the leftist aspect. 

Jomo paused his conversation with Lee and the cuckservative, bowing his head in our direction. The two sitting around him give Joseph lipless smiles. 

Nick bats his lashes at Joseph, drawling out an obnoxious “Heyyyy,” as he slides forward. 

I ball my fists at my side, my knuckles whitening. _I would gas him if I could._ Once he’s within reach, I shove him, and he stumbles backward, nearly into the desks. 

“Good morning to you too, Reichmanger,” he croons, smugly adjusting the rainbow swastika pin on his crusher cap, “no need to be so rude, darrrrrling,” 

“Shut the fuck up, _faggot,_ ” I sneer, flipping him off. The room falls silent, and everybody pretends to ignore my outburst, which is completely justified since Nick is a degenerate, and any pure man would not tolerate his deviance. 

Lee speaks up first. “Honestly, I see no difference between fighting and not fighting, but I do see a difference between starting this meeting and not,” he shrugs, “so, let's start.”

\---

Chairs and desks get shuffled, we all sit down and go over the agenda, discuss preserving tradition, trade, and, for some reason, police--of which Joseph is particularly knowledgeable on. 

“I don’t get why people are saying defund the police, all cops are bastards, it doesn't make sense. My uncle was an officer, and he wasn’t a bastard, he was a patriot,” Jordan says, “Police have always protected true Americans from thugs and criminals! They _need_ to be funded.”

“Da, any strong nation must have a… covert law enforcement branch?”

Jordan and Lee seem confused, but Nick, of course, immediately hops on his dick. 

“Mhm, to keep, (((outsiders))) from invading and enforce anti-miscegenation laws,”

“What’s miscegenation?" everybody but Jomo and I ask. 

“Not important!” 

\---

The meeting blurs by for the most part until Jordan’s phone alarm rings with some bullshit gospel song marking the 5 minutes we have left. 

I held back a sigh of relief- Joseph hadn’t fucked up and neither had I. I tap his shoulder, interrupting some anti-imperialist chat with Jomo mid sentence, without turning, he reaches for my hand, but I see Jomo’s eyes widening, so I opt to bat Joseph away. 

“Hey James,”

He leans back in his chair, swirling his head to face me. I am sure he can see the horor in my eyes. His Adam's apples bobs before he returns to his conservation. Jomo seems to forget within minutes. 

\---

Once the room had been restored to its original layout, we said our goodbyes, Joseph and I rushed out of the door, and once we’re in the hallway, I drag him into the nearest bathroom, shoving him against the tile wall. 

“You can’t just _say_ shit like that,” I thrust a finger into his face, “And do shit like that,”

He gulps against my iron grip on his collar, scarlet eyes dilated and his face even redder against the white porcelain walls. 

I push on with my tirade in his silence, “T-this is, is all your fault, I’m, I- ” 

I was faltering, my chest heaving against his scratchy wool jacket, and he… was just looking at me, doe-eyed and unnervingly calm. 

I stop, trembling and on an adrenaline high, loosening what little grip I had on Joseph. 

He pushes my chin up, forcing me to look at him. He looks like he's about to say something, but I could give less than a shit about it. 

So to shut him up, I kiss him, in some horny, delusional fervor. 

Our tongues slide together, and the taste of cinnamon gum enters my mouth, and it's gross but also really fucking hot. His hands are on the base of my neck, pressing firmly, causing me to gasp lightly. We could be the only two people in the world for all I know. Or care. I’m moaning wantonly into his mouth for more, spit spilling down my raw lips and onto his stubbled chin. Abruptly, he detaches from me, and now I’m pressed against the wall, panting at the sudden loss of contact. He shushes me. 

Footsteps approach the bathroom door.

He shoves me into a stall, and just as it locks in front of me, a familiar pair of shoes walk in. A pair of schnürschuhe with rainbow fucking laces. 

Swallowing my pride, I perch on the toilet, drawing my knees up to my chin. 

“Oh hey, Joseph,” 

His voice is so fucking screechy and effeminate. 

Nick’s heels clack up to the sink, where I assume Joseph is since water is running. 

“Hello, uh, Nicholas” his accent tumbles over the name, not like a waterfall over smooth stones but more like sandpaper against gravel.

Nick smacks his lips together, “Mhm, where’s your little closet case boyfriend?” 

“He is not my... closet case boyfriend, Pindos.”

The water stops and I hear a door slam. I hold my breath, but Nick is gone in less than a minute after him. I breathe a sigh of relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still have no idea how to fix the two fucking notes thing  
> just made a twitter to shitpost art and stuff on, its @gr8ful_ted  
> or drop urs and i'll follow u :0 !!  
> again ty for the comments n shit.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> >be nazi  
> >go to ur bfs bookclub  
> >get zooted after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fixed some formatting issues, thank y'all for your help!! i realized like right after i published chapter six that i somehow missed putting in two sentences, so that is there now. attack helicopter mention, aka the right has one joke moment. actually, two if you count capitalism (i do). posadist is juan because that is what j. posadas used as a pseudonym (according to wikipedia).

“The USSR was just state capitalism and we shouldn't be supporting it.”

“Soviet Russia was a highly effective, centralized planned economy and-”

“Until 1989.” Juan interjected. 

“Comrade, I vill snap your neck like toothpick.”

They move onto some other topic, chattering at length about Marxian economics

I’m not really listening to Joseph, although I'm sure he sounds really fucking smart. Because he is. I had worked and done my classes, but Joseph had asked me to come to his literature club. He came to my own dutifully, so it was my turn to return the favor. This meeting has  _ almost  _ single-handedly convinced me that cultural bolshevism is not permeating every corner of modern culture, it’s sitting in the musty living room of an empty college house. 

All of Joseph’s comrades only read theory and debate each other about use value and the role of vanguard parties, which is the second most boring shit ever. The first is queer theory. Of course, I haven’t read any I’m not a fag, but how interesting could attack helicopters be, other than Kolibris? 

I am trying to not fall asleep, but it's 8 pm, and authoritarian leftists, for some reason, have really comfy couches. I struggle futilely to keep my bleary eyes open in the dimly lit room, swaddled in fur blankets and a worn copy of State and Revolution sitting on my chest. 

“Are ve ready to vrap up this veek’s meeting?” 

I don’t hear what happens next. 

\----

Joseph pokes my stomach, tsking at me, “Vas the Marxist theory too tiring for your little, how do you say it,  _ Untermensch  _ brain?”

I yawn dramatically. “No, it was too boring,”

“If only you would read Lenin, then you would understand,” he chides wistfully. 

“Mmph. The only based thing Lenin did was the Red Terror,” 

I stretched and rose from my nest, and into Joseph’s open arms. I can do this right now; we are all alone in the victorian three-story. 

“Imagine living in a place like this,” I say, gesturing to the ornate crown moldings, the 200-year-old oak planks, and the floral walls. 

My phone pings, echoing in the lofty room, I see who had messaged me and clear it quickly. Clearly, I had made a face, because the next thing Joseph says is, “vhat is vrong?”

I consider not telling him for a second, but I hope it is better to come clean this time. 

“My Mom. She only Facebook messages me when she wants to complain or she needs money. Please. Let’s forget about this.” I am cringing internally and externally

Joseph drops it. I thank him silently (in my head because real men don’t show any courtesy). We head out, saying our goodbyes to Joseph’s friends on the front deck, then embarking on our mile-long walk. 

“That was a really great fucking idea,” I nudge him with my shoulder, and he drapes his arm over me. “To hold your long-ass theory jerk off session two hours later than usual,”   
“Hey! I did so  _ you _ could come along, and how vas I supposed to know it vould be past dark?!”

I just snort, secretly giddy, tilting my head onto his shoulder. 

He ruffles my hair, fingers combing through my dirty blonde curls, occasionally stopping to work through a knot as we stroll in tandem down the shadowy road. Shivering, I snuggle into his itchy coat, and he envelopes me beneath the heavy folds. I feel so free, even in the suffocating darkness, and for now, I have not a care in the world. Only Joseph. 

\---

“I want to paint you,” I announced abruptly. 

“Vhat?”

I exit COD, which really captures his attention. 

“Vhat vas that for?” 

“Now,” 

“James, yes, but vhy now?” His brows are furrowed. It's cute. He’s cute.  _ Disgusting perverted thoughts. _

Ignoring him, I pull myself off of his bed and begin arranging my oil paints and easel. I peer out of the corner of my eye, watching his exasperation develop. 

Joseph creeps up behind me, resting his chin on my bare shoulder, “For once you are being assertive,” he teases, grinding himself against my backside

“Alcohol is degenerate, but I am too sober for this,” 

I turn to face him, and his expression tells me perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned alcohol. But I still want to, well, not be sober. 

“But we can…” I propose with uncertainty, “Do drugs?” 

_ A symbol of degeneracy and the degradation of Western culture. _

I am not even sure why I suggest this. The only drugs I’ve taken are Ambien and Zoloft, besides, drugs are even more degenerate than alcohol. 

Relief washes over me when his face lightens. 

“Da, Jay-er, my ex, left part of their stash here. Under my bed, I believe.”

\--- 

We lift off his mattress with ease, revealing baggies filled with a myriad of pills in different shapes, colors, and sizes, little black sheets covered with red stars, ziplocks of dried mushrooms and kush.

After we pull every last baggie out and lay them out, our dorm looks like a fucking Sinaloa bust. 

“Holy shit, this is a degenerate amount of drugs,”

“But I thought any amount was degenerate?”

“Correct. But this is  _ extra  _ degenerate. Who needs hammer and sickle blotters?”

I snatch the sheets up from my… nordic ruins patterned sheets. 

“I’m surprised you even know vhat these are,” Joseph yanks them out of my hands, a twinkle in his eyes, “I don’t even believe you’ve drank,”

“Uh, I most certainly have,” I puff, grabbing up the sheets. He giggles at me, using his height to keep them just out of reach. Cunt. 

He pops off a piece and hands it to me. I stare at it blankly. 

“How the fuck do I take this? Am I supposed to swallow it?” 

Joseph grins amusedly, opening his mouth and placing a tab beneath his tongue, “Like this,”

I copy his motions, but as soon as it begins to dissolve I grimace. 

“This tastes incredibly fucking awful,” 

“It’s acid, pussy.”

\----

Thirty minutes later, mid brushstroke, the room begins to fluctuate around me. 

“Joseph, Joe, can-can you feel it?” 

Words tumble out of me, scrambled. He does not respond. My whole body feels like air as if somebody pulled a sandbag off of me. The painting in front of me crawls, thousands of tiny ants marching in lines along my creation.

Joseph is propped on a folding chair, stiff and unmoving, behind my easel. He raises his eyebrows, staying quiet. Either he is lost in thought and incredibly zooted or a very good model. Or all of the above.

I eye him, continuing to paint, this time with more intent but less care for my accuracy. I am not sure what colors I’m choosing, I am only imitating the shapes and lines. 

He loosens himself, slouching forward, his muscles shifting fluidly, the tendons rippling. 

“Sometimes I vish I could, draw, paint, something like that. Like you. But instead of landscapes I vould paint people. Like you,” 

“You don’t have to be good to do art. Remember Entartete Kunst?” 

“And I suppose Dalí’s art was degenerate, da? Even though he vas a fascist,”

“Still degenerate. ”

He rolls his eyes but presses on.

“I vant to make a, a homage to you. Represent you accurately, does that make sense? ”

“Sounds gay,” 

“Идиот. You are literally doing that,” he slurs, gesticulating his hands at my set-up.

“Its for a grade, stupid Slav. And so much for holding your pose,” 

“Sure, sure, let me try,  _ I’m painting my roommate who I sleep vith for a grade and I’m not gay _ , who do I sound like?” He’s so fucking smug. And I am a tiny bit offended that his mockery of my voice is so nasally. 

I lean towards him, hovering my brush over his nose, leaving a blue mark over his light freckles. I pull my brush away. But I don’t move away, so I’m just looking at him. He’s looking at me. We’re staring at each other. Which would be awkward if we both weren’t high as balls. 

“I think you maybe can, uh, finish this painting, another night, no?”

It’s not really a question. He knows it. I know it. 

I drop my brush onto the ground. I am making a point. I think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know that meme about not trusting men with j names? this whole fic is an ode to that.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is basically softporn mixed with blueman having both mommy and daddy issues. yea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for going bye bye for a month, this is not proofread either   
> context: like a month and a half later, and it’s winter now. we timeskipping or whatever  
> usual tws, you know the drill

Snowflakes slide down the car window, I watch them, my cheek pressed against the cold glass, fogging up with each puff of air that leaves my nose. 

“Do you think it might have been a stupid faggy idea to drive while it’s snowing,”

“Maybe.”

I shift to face Joseph in the cramped car. Whenever he gets the aux he plays fucking soviet classical music. Still better than the (((popular))) music. 

“I didn’t think Slavs had good music taste,”

“You didn’t think ve vere human, how am I supposed to even begin valuing your opinion?”

“You’re clearly human. A degenerate homosexual communist. But a human.”

“Degenerate homosexual communist. I like that. Vould make a good Twitter handle.” he muses, offering his right hand to me. 

“Can’t believe you know what Twitter is. Gab superiority, faggot,” 

But I rest my hand on his regardless, and the pit in my stomach feels a little lighter and a little less deep.    
\---- 

By the time we arrive at the motel, night has fallen. As we drove further upstate, the weather became more intense. Snow is sheeting down in wet chunks and the car windows have fogged up, making the outside world nearly invisible. I make Joseph check in to our room out of paranoia. I shiver in the car, bundled up in his coat. It still smells of bergamot. 

A rap on the window startles me, and for a second I worry that I am about to be robbed or worse. But it's just Joseph. I unfurl my body and step into the cold night to join him. 

His face is accentuated by little snowflakes on his brows and nose, sticking to his ushanka and the dark brown curls that stick out from underneath. 

I reach a hand out and carefully brush off his face. I don’t make any comments about faggotry this time. Which is good for our relationship, but not for fascist praxis. 

We drag in the suitcases and duffle bags, exchanging short sentences, and quick glances. 

\---

I flop onto the bed, springs sinking beneath me, scratchy sheets crumpling. We agreed on a single bed hotel room, something about saving costs, I think. Which is complete bullshit. 

I watch as Joseph strips in front of me, discarding his signature red turtleneck on the ground alongside his ushanka, undoing his leather belt from his wrinkled starchy chinos. They drop around his ankles and I am treated to a look at his backside. 

“Stop being a little creep,” he glares at me from the side, pulling a fresh pair of briefs over his exposed legs.

“Then don’t stand directly in front of me with your ass out,”

“Fuck you,” he replies, and there’s a smile in his voice. 

\--- 

The timer goes off, a loud beep emitting from the dinky machine. I pull a sad-looking tv dinner out of the microwave for us to share. Some wilted leaves and unidentifiable brown things. Meat maybe. Meat, I hope. I join him in the bed, placing the plastic container in between us. 

“We’re like a bedridden old couple,”

“Depressing,” he muses offering me a piece of mystery meat impaled onto a plastic fork, “here comes the airplane,” 

\---

I am not really sure what transpired in between the TV dinner and now. I am laying beside Joseph on the thin mattress, our limbs tangled together in a knotted mess. I can see us from above, two bodies embracing each other, in the shitty room of a highway-side motel in the middle of the American Midwest. And I wonder how this all happened. 

Over the past few months, Joseph and I have gotten closer and closer. And now we’re going to visit my father in the hospital together. I would’ve never considered even telling anyone about my family in September. But I spilled everything out to Joseph in a few hours, sobbing my way through my stupid fucked up childhood and my lonesome adolescence in his arms. 

—-

_ “She didn’t love me. She just put the clothes on my back and fed me. That’s fucking it. And my dad was never even there. Always at work or at the fucking bar getting blackout drunk.” _

_ I sob in my hands, hunched over. He awkwardly pats me on the back as my body shudders. I am so fucking weak. But I keep talking. _

_ “And he just kept drinking. All through middle school, high school, whatever. He kept getting more violent. He fucking hit me. My mom did nothing. She just left one day, only coming back on fucking holidays. Practically abandoned her own son. Fucking bitch.” _

_ And I gasp, trying desperately to catch my breath in between full-bodied bouts of tears.  _

_ “And now he wants me to visit him on his self-induced deathbed? What a fucking moron. Pathetic,” _

_ Joseph just holds me, a serious expression on his face, calm and held together. His hands cradle my hot cheeks, wiping away the salty tears with his rough thumbs. I thank god that he doesn’t pretend to pity me.  _

_ —- _

But it’s still not gay yet. Not a month ago, not today. Even as he is literally running his fingers through my hair. I’ll find something to blame for my degeneracy later. I will always blame it on something. Because it’s unnatural. No one is born homosexual. 

Joseph purrs into my ears, causing my neck hairs to stand on end, and I snap back to reality. 

Electricity shoots down my body and everything feels so alive, all at once. Everything comes flooding back. 

Joseph’s thighs press against me. My arms draped around his neck, caressing his brown locks. I feel like crying, kissing, screaming, collapsing in on myself. Whatever. Something wells up inside of me, and in a craven act of moral degradation, I roll over and push myself up, straddling Joseph. His body is splayed, vulnerable in only boxers, and pinned beneath my small weight.  _ What the fuck am I doing. What the fuck.  _

“Hi,” 

“Comrade,” 

“Do not call me comrade if we’re about, if we’re-”

“About to vhat?” his grin widens obnoxiously and he plants his hands on my hips. 

_ Fuck. _ Freudian slip. Even though Freud was a Jew and a degenerate. 

I reach my hands to press the sides of his neck. It shuts him up, alright. His eyes widen, and I watch until his face reddens, then I release my grip. I am in control. 

“James, fuck you,” he gasps from beneath me, squirming.

“Literally shut up. You have a boner, fag,” I taunt him, grinding against his boxers.

He growls, and in one swift movement, he flips me beneath him, looking down at me with a smirk. It is my turn to squirm. 

The second I do so, his expression goes soft, a look of guilt emerges. We are both still for a moment.

All I can think of is that this is my chance to back out. But back out of what? My only friendship? A months-long relationship? Even if it’s gay and degenerate? The last bit of plausible deniability? You could argue I lost even that within weeks of living with Joseph. Living with a homosexual rubs off on the best of heterosexuals (me). 

So I make a stupid fucking decision and tell him to do it. I don’t specify what it is. I think we both know. 

\---

Joseph leans above me on the bed, gliding his hands across my skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake. He sucks into my neck, light bruises appearing, purpling the canvas of my pale skin. 

“James, you’re being a pillow princess,”

“I’m not some kind of princess or a  _ woman _ , I’m a true Aryan man.”

He releases a deep sigh. “It means I’m doing all the vork.” 

“It’s gay if I do the ‘work’,”

Joseph snorts as I wrap my arms around his neck and hoist myself up against his wide chest. We move in tandem, Joseph sliding my boxers off first and then his briefs, casting them aside onto the floor. I cannot believe myself. I am letting him do this. 

“Really James?  _ These _ boxers?”

My cheeks flush red. I make a mental note to get rid of these specifically. In case this ever happens again. Which it won’t, because I’m not a faggot. Women are just degenerating because of cultural Marxism.

He folds up the iron-cross adorned undies, shoving them into the nightstand drawer and grabbing a small bottle, next to the King James bible.

I position myself on the edge of the bed, dangling my limbs off of the duvets and facing him. I want to see his face. God, I hate myself. So fucking much. 

We reconnect, kissing and giggling intermittently, each touch feeling ticklish. I am like a schoolgirl whenever he opens his mouth, batting my lashes and nodding in agreement. How fucking awful.

\--- 

What seems like centuries later, we are both red and panting, desperate for a release after an arguably months-long buildup to this point. 

“Don’t… stick  _ it  _ in though. I’m not a woman. Or a fag,” I add, unconvincingly. I wince when I see his mouth quirk up. I am not convincing anyone. 

“It vould hurt you anyway, comrade. That is vhy. I know you know this. You are not stupid.”

I pinch his cheek in response. 

“It’s faggotry. And comrade is weird, I told you,”

He grabs my hand, intertwining our fingers together, and we fall onto the bed together. 

Just like that, I have reached the point of no return. 

—-

My hips buck into his hands, and I grind my teeth together in a poor effort to contain myself. Joseph has a wicked grin on his face when I look at him again. Fucking sadist. 

“Slow the fuck down fag,”

The smirk widens. There’s an evil gleam in his dark eyes. 

“Oh, I am the fag? Be gentler then,  _ comrade. _ ”

\---

“You’re so pretty like this. So fucking beautiful.” 

I reach my spare hand, trembling, to cup his face. He melts into my touch. And I really believe it- he is beautiful. 

“Нет. You are vrong.”

“I’m trying to give you a fucking compliment, stop being a soy betafag”

“Vell then, don’t call me  _ that _ vhile you have your hand on my dick,”

For that, I yank a bit harder, watching his face curl up. It’s funny, in a disgusting way. And I wish I hated it. Something inside me enjoys our moronic cat and mouse game, the little jabs back and forth at every turn, our routines, the unspoken asks, the faggotry of it all.

After it’s all said and done, and an embarrassingly early finish on my part, we fall into our usual comfortable silence, going through the motions of our evening routine.  _ Our.  _

And I hate myself for enjoying it, every part of this bullshit homosexual mess I’m entangled in. Even then, I can’t bring myself to hate Joseph, even if he’s a dirty fag, he’s still supportive and kind and a good friend. 

We lay together, exchanging nothing but movements and glances. I would rather not talk about it. I don’t think Joseph would either. So we stay there, facing each other, pillowtalk but no one is saying anything. 

I still feel floaty and good, but a sense of dread has settled in the depths of my stomach. I shove it back with everything else in my mind and try to be present. 

With him, and his messy hair and glistening face and dorky smile. He’s glowing, almost. Men are not supposed to be beautiful, but Joseph is. 

We butt foreheads, his hot breath hitting my face, ticklish, and it makes me giggle. It smells minty and clean. I suddenly feel self-conscious about skipping out on brushing my teeth earlier. But eventually, the feeling fades, and sleep arrives, despite my nerves and restlessness, I am safe with him beside me. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had a deadline for this of december 10th lmfao, i might write another chapter i might not we'll see  
> if any of my jritter fags see this: hiiiiiiiiiii yes this is what im doing while deactivated (also going outside. fuck you)  
> the usual, drop a comment, kudos whatever, thanks for reading mwah mwah


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cute and fluffy for like a page then it goes SOUR!

We are back on the road early the next day, the Golf’s front beams cutting across the foggy dimness of early winter morning. The heat is cranked all the way up, a steady hum accenting the crackling AM radio. 

Oldies, some jig by Simon & Garfunkel. It’s cheery and full of hope, a stark contrast to the general gloom of what’s to come. 

Joseph taps the wheel with his pinky, a second too late to the beat of the song, his knee bouncing slightly too.

My stomach feels like an open pit, and I regret not grabbing something from the bowl of discolored citrus on the checkout desk, but maybe this means I won’t throw up later. 

I have two hours to calm myself down, two hours before I have to interact with my father. Hopefully for the last time. God isn’t real, but if he were I’d pray to him that my father can at least be nice to me for once. Fucking once. 

I bring my knees to my chest, sighing loudly. Deep down I hope that he says something. 

“How are you feeling?” 

“What’s there to feel about? I don’t care. He doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. I brought him a card and flowers, all there is to be done is drop it off,”

“You know, James, you can always talk to me-”

“No. there’s nothing to fucking talk about.” 

He doesn’t say anything, but his lips fold into a thin line and his brows furrow deeply. His knuckles are white, clenching the wheel. For a split second, it looks as if he is about to explode. But then he leans back into the leather driver’s seat, deflating with a sigh. And now he just looks disappointed. Every time I snap at him it’s like kicking a puppy. A good immediate release but now you have a hurt puppy and an animal abuse charge. 

Joseph’s eyes are focused on the road, and he’s clearly making an effort to look everywhere but at me. He’s got a good side profile for a slav Untermensch. Strong nose and chin. Defined brows. He’s objectively handsome. Not a faggy thing to say because it's objectively true. And anyone can admire a man’s appearance since it is factual truth that Joseph is a good-looking man. 

\---

A hand is ruffling my hair. I relax into it, in my drowsiness, all I can process is the utter satisfaction of a much-needed massage and the heavy feeling of exhaustion floating over me. 

“James. Hey. James. James.”

Joseph’s accented voice finally reaches me after the third iteration of my name. Through my half-lidded, sleep-crusted eyes, I see his hand reach above my vision and make its way into my hair. He pushes back my front fringe, pinching my cheek before returning his arm to the driver's wheel. A yawn escapes my mouth and I feel compelled to stretch out every muscle in my body.

“There’s a rest stop in a mile. Ve are stopping since I have to piss. So pull yourself together because you look like shit.” 

“You don’t mean that,” 

“Comrade, I completely do,”

I’m grinning like an idiot. Even his insults are like compliments to me. 

I flip down the sun visor and slide open the little mirror. I doubt he truly meant it but I really, honestly, look like shit. More so than expected. My eyes are puffy and my waterline has its own decorative trim of eye crust. Somehow my face is flushed, even the tips of my ears reddish with heat. 

“For once Joseph, you were right,”

“The immortal science of Marxist-Leninism is never wrong, but da, you are thrashed.” 

\---

The vehicle shifts downward as the Golf moves into the stop’s exit, sixty miles turning to forty and then thirty and then fifteen. We pull into the gravel parking lot, Joseph sidling the spray-painted line between two spots with the car. 

The rest area is unoccupied, save for a couple of squirrels and crows pecking at a pile of god-knows-what. The sun has barely peeked past the snowy slopes and dense forest, thin rays streaming through young saplings and wherever it can find an opening. Joseph pulls the keys out and we get out of the car into the cold midwestern morning, my breath puffing out in front of me. I stand for a moment, just absorbing the scenery and calm. It’s truly beautiful. 

I hear a gruff ahem close to me and soon after his warm hand slips into mine. Like a puzzle. He doesn’t see it, but I smile. I can’t help it. 

Something possesses me, I grab his arm and twirl with him, clumsily on the rough ground. In the split second that we face each other, I think this is the most flustered Joseph has ever been with me. But moments later, he’s composed, stepping forward with me and lifting me onto the sidewalk gracefully.

In the distance, vehicles whoosh past on the freeway, and birds chirp. We are blissfully alone. 

Neither one of us pulls the other in, it’s more like two opposite magnet ends coming together to stick together. I’m shivering a little. I have no fucking clue what is happening. 

Our hands firmly clasped in some sort of lame final motion, we bump chests rather awkwardly, laughing uncontrollably. Joseph releases his grip and doubles over cackling. After about thirty seconds, he calms down, slinging his arm over me as we walk closer to the rest stop building.

“The look on your face was priceless. You vere very surprised. You’re handsome when you’re slightly shell-shocked” 

“I am taking that as a positive,”

“Because it is,”

And then he bends down and kisses me, with the same minty breath as last night. This time he’s wearing chapstick too. And I can taste it. It’s good. Waxy, but a sweet orange flavor too. 

“Far too soon, it’s over, and we reach the building. I find a bench to sit on and watch Joseph disappear behind the bathroom door. 

\-- 

“Take the next exit, to your right, in 400 feet. Exit 225.”

After two hours of farmland and trees and great expanse ( Lebensraum!), we finally reenter civilization. If you can even call a rundown farming town in Ohio “civilization”. We roll past boarded-up homes and empty swing sets and closed businesses. I feel a twinge of sympathy for the people who live here. But they are not my volk. So it comes as quickly as it goes.

In the distance, the hospital looms above the small town, a shadow over a shithole. A giant, ugly mass of concrete. The dread sets in again, and I am compelled to reach for Joseph’s hand. So I do. He says nothing, but I see a little bit more red on his face. 

\---

He parks, and I nearly leave the car without the card or flowers. My nerves are in a tight, writhing bundle. I try to focus on other things. Happy thoughts. Things that make me happy. COD. Painting. Him. Fag, I reflexively tell myself.

\---

I talk to the woman at the visitor check-in. She tells us to sit down until my father approves the visit. The anxiety mounts. 

I sit with Joseph in the empty waiting room. The only thing you can hear is my raggedy breathing. 

Minutes later, a nurse opens the door to the hallway and beckons us in. 

“He’s ready. Both of you are coming, yes?”

I glance at Joseph. He wrinkles his eyebrows at me.

“He’ll wait outside the door,”

\---

The nurse smiles curtly, it’s sickeningly fake, you can see it in her eyes when her lips curl up. She talks at us, words moving across her lips with no sound, I watch, the pounding in my ears building as she drones on. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t.

I am handed a manila envelope, another document that I’ll toss in the next bin I see. I don’t care. She nods her head and me, clasping her hands together, and this time I hear her words. Press the red button and help is on its way. I can remember that. Red button. Help.

Joseph situates himself outside the door, hopefully out of view of the glass panel of my father’s hospital door. He gives me a reassuring squeeze, and I am reminded of how cold and clammy my hands are. Once the steady pounding fades into a dull throb, I step away from him, sharing one last glance before I push open the heavy metal door. 

\---

First, I notice the room is really, really cold. It looks cold too, seafoam walls speckled with the white, paneled ceiling and metal machines. And in the middle of it all, my father lays, tucked within the bright white sheets of a hospital cot. A steady beep in the background from the vitals machine.

“James! Finally, I thought you had finally topped yourself,”

His jovial tone barely masked the spiteful words.

“Hello, Papa.”

My father propped himself up, a sort of disgusting grin on his face and a gleam in his eyes.

“So, who did you bring with you?” 

Fuck. He noticed. 

“Er- a friend, to switch off while driving,” 

He eyes me and I know he’s suspicious. 

“Well bring him in. I’d like to meet him,”

My heart is beating in my ears. He’s going to fucking find out. 

And for a sickening second, I think maybe it wouldn’t be that bad- after all, I’d never have to deal with his bullshit again. But then I remember the sheer cost of college and who is paying for it. So I shut my mouth. 

Immediately, the interrogation begins. 

“Are you dating anyone?” 

“How did you meet James?”

“Your major?” 

My father grills him with question after question. And he answers each one. 

“Er- Uhm, no one. I don’t really date.”

“Really, a man like you? What girl wouldn’t want that?”

Joseph, always stoic and unwavering, squirms under Papa’s cold glare.

“I don’t-”

“Ah, you’re a faggot? James, you know what happens when you hang around queers, it rubs off.” 

I can practically see the gears turning in his head, the dots connecting. 

“Papa, no that’s not true-”

There’s a cold fury lurking behind his blue eyes. 

“I don’t want a dirty fag for a son. Get out,”

His rage is simmering, barely contained, the disingenuous smile from earlier replaced by a tight-lipped hard line. 

“Please, just listen to me, I’m not a-”

“Leave.” 

Papa’s eyes glint dangerously and his arm reaches for the red button, hovering over it. 

“Or I’m calling for help,” The last part stings. Especially. I throw around faggot enough that hearing it from my own father barely fazes me. What hurts the most is it’s what I dreaded but I knew would happen. I should have never responded to his messages, came to this hillbilly town in the buttfuck middle of nowhere, any of that. I should’ve known. But I’m a stupid fagcel with fucking daddy issues and an inferiority complex. 

II toss the envelope with the stupid fucking  _ “Get Well Soon!” _ card. I don’t care if he gets better or worse. It doesn’t matter. My father doesn’t love me and he never has or will. 

I spit out one last goodbye and a sarcastic “thanks for everything” at the end. Thanks for the years of bullshitting and absence, I guess.

“Thanks for visiting me, James.”

The sickly venom in his voice is even more malicious this time. I turn on my heel before I can see whatever facial expression he made up to make me pity him. 

Joseph holds the door open, ushering me through. I shuffle past him and we spill into the empty hallway. The door slams shut behind us. We’re silent in the hall. A doctor walks by, eyes fastened downwards on his clipboard. 

It’s somehow silent, despite the click-clicking of heels and squealing carts rolling past. I feel weak and lightheaded but I point my head to the ground and quicken my pace as Joseph tags along behind me. I ignore him. I ignore everything, tuning out the receptionist as I sign my name on the log, next to the time and date, a messy ”James Reichmanger”.

Like a shadow, Joseph hovers behind me. I pay him no regard, threading my way through the dated brown and beige furniture, brushing against the itchy polyester and fake oak. 

The tears finally well up as I cross the sliding door exit, a thick lump forming in my throat and the steady pound returning with new vigor. Even my father knows I’m a faggot. 

_ “I don’t want a dirty fag for a son.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on jritter if you dont kek @gr8ful_ted   
> i have like 3 ish chapters outlined and i'll be done with this fic. one is gonna be super short, one long, and one regular length. hoping i can get my shit together to write lmao.  
> comment, kudos, idk do something por favor   
> thank u for reading xoxo *mwah*


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